


Repeated Image

by YawningOverTheTapestries



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Soul Mates AU, Unreliable Narrator, and John and Sherlock being idiots about it, at least not yet, massive elephant in the room, not exactly canon divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-14 07:22:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2182959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YawningOverTheTapestries/pseuds/YawningOverTheTapestries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed.”  ― Richard Siken, Crush </p><p> </p><p>A captivating, mysterious stranger crossed paths with John Watson. Or maybe he didn't.</p><p>For Sherlock Holmes is far from a stranger, for the one special person who can see beyond the deductions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Shared](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2020971) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 



> Please read the above story first - this picks up right from where it leaves off. I thought the idea was mine, but I really can't say the story is all mine.

John felt like time had slowed down to almost a standstill. He'd been trying to find something legible alongside _extraordinary_ to say. Trying to convince himself that this was real - he and this stranger had fallen into each others' lives, with shared rooms and something of a career in mystery-solving, in the space of less than twenty-four hours.

Granted, even to the casual eye this man was spectacular, with a personality too big for any enclosed space. For although Sherlock had a select circle of friends and associates he put himself first. Lived alone, as John did, but looking for someone to share the rent of his new digs. And something told John that he's not the kind of person to trust his responsibilities to someone he hardly knew.

But the thing was, even though they'd only just met, John and Sherlock weren't strangers. They couldn't be. Not when images and sounds of the other's thoughts and wonders were repeated, every now and then, in their own heads. For over thirty years.

 

 

 

Once John had managed to put his head back on the right way round, all he could fathom was a big fat unanswered question of _how? I first got myself into your head when I was six, and I suspect you were a similar age when the same happened to you. How does it work.... and why us?_

Of course he'd been puzzled by this, from when he was old enough to realize that these unexplainable sensations weren't anything to do with him.

He wasn't up for sharing them with Harry. She was enough of a handful on her own. And from the little he knew about this phenomenon, everyone is supposed to receive little telepathic messages, from one particular person, somewhere in the world, who will receive from you in turn. She didn't get hers half as often as he did, and they were never as clear as his. And what with all the nightmarish domestic issues going on, then wasn't really the time to talk about it anyway. And, impossible to understand as they were, the occasional escapades of this strange curly-haired boy kept him company, during those years he'd otherwise want to forget.

 

"Okay, you've got questions."

 _Absolutely! How about 'What's your opinion on destiny?' for a start?_ "Yeah, where are we going?"

"Crime scene. Next?"

"Who are you? What do you do?"

First things first. Four grizzly suicides following the same template, and just the last one with a note. Enticing enough for the time being - Sherlock _did_ know, about Afghanistan, and he had no need to examine John's limp and tan lines to find that out. And the danger and dazzle of warfare, of one sort or another, couldn't come back soon enough - it did come back, and John barely saw it coming; he was too lost in Sherlock reeling off all the details of what he'd seen of John, and his mobile, so far. Proving what he already knew with hard facts.

 

".... could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live, so unlikely you've got an extended family, and certainly not one you're close to, so, sibling it is... and - ", here he added with a devilish look on his face, "if I didn't know better, I'd have gone for brother from the word go."

John could only let his eyes double in diameter.

"Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says romantic attachment.... "

 

And John thought to himself, definitely _not_ wanting to share this with Sherlock: _I can't correct him. Not when he's not finished. Probably the result of years of practice and studying all kinds of weird people and scenarios. And he's taken a shine to me after just learning my name - he could have finally met me after all this time and been so disappointed -_

 _no, shut up,_ shut up _, he's... he could have been anyone! But he's bloody brilliant! And attractive and charming and... I don't know, I guess he'd happily show off his talents to anyone. I can't be_ that _special._

 

 

"Did I get any - damn, I did - "

"Harriet, Sherlock. Harry's short for Harriet."

"Of course. From what I remember the two of you never got on very well. "

"Mm. She drove Clara off as well. Split up three months ago. And she's been a drinker for ages."

"Spot on, then. Didn't expect to be right about everything."

"Yes, well, you should know, shouldn't you... look, what exactly am I doing here?"

 

John pulled a face as he limped on ahead, almost not looking over his shoulder to Sherlock, a quizzical look all over his own face. As if another spontaneous sharing of the same thought process had happened without them noticing.... had they been closer to one another, John might have noticed almost excitement in those bright eyes; it didn't last, as Lauriston Gardens was crawling with Yarders who didn't all look best pleased to have Sherlock rocking up.

The severe yet somewhat off-hand way Sergeant Donovan would refer to Sherlock as 'Freak' annoyed John almost straight away, even though he would grudgingly agree that discovering who's sleeping with whom out loud, from the lingering whiff of aftershave, is really not necessary.

 _Does she call you that to get your attention?_ Sherlock might have answered him to his face on the spot, were he not in Work Mode at that moment.

 

If this was going to be their arrangement, if this was actually happening: after all this time they'd met at last, and were going to share more than just the contents of each other's brains, then Sherlock was going to need to let himself realise it soon. One dead body later - "Yep, asphyxiation. Passed out, choked on her own vomit, can't smell any alcohol on her. Might be a seizure, possibly drugs." - Sherlock knew he had to.

 

 

 

But, brand spanking new companion or not, Sherlock still ran on nervous energy, disappearing off into the night after the overnight bag that belonged to the unfortunate victim... leaving John roadside all over again.

"He's gone, hasn't he?"

"Yeah, he does that."

"He's not coming back, is he?"

"Didn't look like it."

This woman would be forgiven for having disparaging things to say about Sherlock, having seen, and attempted to work with him, in the flesh. While John hadn't; he didn't need to be a genius to know what kind of reputation Sherlock had.

 

"You're not his friend. He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

"Why do you want to know?"

She eyed him warily for a few seconds. As if she thought he wasn't getting the point.

"If you knew him, knew what kind of person he is, behind all the... personality and showing off and ego... you'd stay away from him. He's dangerous. And unpredictable. Bit of friendly advice, stay away."

John was sorely tempted to tell her his secret, for about half a second. He knew how inappropriate and disrespectful it would be. Not to mention, she'd never believe him.

 

Dragging himself off to the main road in search of a taxi, John at least had long enough to gather his thoughts. Try and process this.

He'd always known, his name and his age and what he was trying to do with himself - and now at last he'd got to meet him.

 _If you were an idiot, John, you'd have met me to affirm with yourself that I actually wasn't a figment of your imagination. And it's not like you were quite as obvious as I thought - I tried to be rational with my chances of bumping into you in the street!_ Sherlock, in his head, sounded like he was laughing at himself. Which he seemed to be doing, perched on the balcony of someone's house - a house on Lauriston Gardens, with twitchy curtains, keeping Sherlock still for a moment before diving into the alleyway below. And an opportunity to congratulate himself on his good fortune - after all, some people go their whole lives without ever meeting their other half.

 

But upon a sudden John had to question his own - a large shiny black armoured car materialised beside him, with a request for him to get in.

Several minutes later, the car pulled up in another unfamiliar part of town, a car park or something, that had probably stood unused for years, and silhouetted in the cut of faint light was another tall, dark, smartly dressed, sharply-drawn stranger-not-quite-a-stranger, but this time, not one John ever anticipated meeting.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John receives a warning, and his first thrill.

"Have a seat, Dr Watson."

John let his eyes drift from the chair to the gentleman with the umbrella, and back again, and said nothing. Nonetheless the look on his face was truly disapproving.

"Have we met before?"

His voice was sharp and cool and those four words made John's heart chill.

 

"I think I'd know if we'd met. Why?"

"Oh, just a thought, a perfectly innocent suggestion, if you like. And I don't mean to be too hasty, but I have a couple of things to ask you. And a little friendly advice, if you'd care to listen to it."

"Really?"

The gentleman nodded curtly. "Surely... I'm not a perfect stranger to you, am I?"

John's brow furrowed as he stared at the floor for a moment, groping round his head for any clearer versions of the fuzzy memories, surfacing completely unannounced, of this very face, this voice, at a younger age. There weren't many snippets of them, but they had to be there somewhere in that patchwork quilt of Sherlock glimpses.

John gave the stranger another wary look, unable to say anything again. Or unwilling. Or both, possibly. Maybe, not because something was telling him he was right, about who this person was, but because he didn't want to say anything that would give the game away, and he wasn't even sure why; somewhere in this deep recess, something was telling John not to underestimate this man, and, still, to keep up his guard on his secret. Even though this very night his other half had made his appearance, after all this time.

The gentleman gave a wry smile, begrudgingly changing the subject. A bit.

 

"I have a select group of acquaitances from the field of neurological research,", he began, in a voice that got used for his most impersonal talks, "and there's an outside chance that this might surprise you, but it's more uncommon than the rumours and fairy tales everyone knows about say they are: the phenomena of spontaneous connections between a pair of seemingly random individuals, of sensory perceptions and processes - which normally occur while both parties are conscious: they frequently appear as reasonably ordinary mental images and sounds, though they can be accompanied by physical sensations, especially if they are particularly intense or traumatic."

John's glazed-over expression, slowly developing in the wake of this tirade of technical lingo, suddenly faltered. An abhorrent memory from his own childhood made him wince.

The stranger hooked his umbrella over the crook of his arm, and produced a notebook out of a pocket. "They very quickly settle into a routine, with each of the party being receptive to the other at a particular time, or after an estimated period of time has elapsed, though the condition of the participants - age, emotional state, and so forth - and other factors can influence them. Also, every so often, one or both of the party may be asleep during the process: if this is the case, the phenomena will attempt to work itself into the REM cycle - simply put, they become noticeably vivid dreams. That being said, the evidence is patchy. There are only seven recorded cases of there being more than two people sharing sensations in this way. Most cases of this happening do go unreported. Also, after a particularly traumatic event, the link can become severed, temporarily, unless you're incredibly unlucky. If one of the pair dies young, for example - one of a number of consequences, of this phenomenon being extremely poorly studied."

He spoke a little slower, reading notes in a very careful order, to keep them making sense. Not that there would be any worry of scaring John off by now; behind the bedazzled eyes, the newly-retired soldier was dangerously close to being too involved now. And, of course, there weren't many places for him to disappear off to from here.

"Telepathy?"

The man raised an eyebrow. Perhaps he knew what John meant, or perhaps it was just part of the whole show. Hard to tell.

"Involuntary, and between two distinct enough individuals, who will have absolutely no control over it as it happens, just over the aftermath of it. But, indeed, telepathy."

 

 

The gentleman gave his little sharklike smile again. "As I said, occurrences like this are rarer than you'd think. From the little we know, this results from a loophole in the network of the brain that processes all the sensory input it receives. Everything else - from what determines the two people that share what they respectively think, to the short and long term effects of this phenomena on how the brain handles its cognitive abilities - it's full of gaps. Rather frustrating, when you consider how it has wormed it's way so deeply into our culture the way it has. It's something of a mystery. A deep, profound, enigmatic mystery."

The man's pale eyes were sparkling by now, and John had to stop and realise the sentence the stranger had finished with.

"So, Dr Watson, I'll ask again - hopefully by now you've had sufficient time to dwell on your answer - am I truly a perfect stranger to you?"

 

 

 

 _Yes! Obvious choice, a skip - owners of the property left no less than a month ago, place left practically derelict._ Trying to ignore the impromptu burst of Sherlock in his head, John shifted his weight on and off his cane. "Well, you can't be, can you? When your driver singled me out on the street and took me to you."

He was answered with a short, light laugh, that didn't sound genuine in the slightest.

"I could have been anyone, Dr Watson. If I weren't a rational man, I might write this off as a complete coincidence."

 _Sticks out like a sore thumb, doesn't it? Cabin approved, lightweight, trolley wheeled, 55x40x20cm, in, urgh, fuchsia. Of course it's colour coordinated. And... Jennifer Wilson. Found you at last! Out of this dumping ground with you!_ Images - Sherlock's, not his own - pushed in and wrangled attention in his head: an empty back garden with a small skip sat in it. John was frowning.

"And would you call it a coincidence,"

The stranger lowered his head, looking both unassuming and oddly menacing all at once. Not that he actually was scaring his captive audience.

"that you've chosen to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?"

 

 

John swallowed hard, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

"You don't seem particularly afraid."

Oh, the nerve. John was convinced he was right by now.

"You don't seem very frightening."

 

That mirthless laugh again - a Polo mint for the ears. John felt idiotic after that exchange, and, counting on the fact that he really wasn't afraid of this man, he did honestly want to clear up the mystery of who this person was.

"Ah, the bravery of the soldier. Bravery, what a marvellously kind, polite way of describing stupidity - believe me, naivety and fearlessness aren't blood relatives, but they do have a habit of tagging after each other. Tell me, however old you were when you'd matured enough to rationalise your connection to Sherlock, there must have been a time when you could tell the difference between an urban myth, and something real."

Inside his head, John flatly refused to reply, a bit snubbed at practically being called stupid. And he'd be damned if he was going to tell anyone about his darkest secrets.

The gentleman sighed lightly, as if to make a pass at being exasperated by the _sang-froid_ on John's face, and obviously realising what he was thinking, not having much time for being second-guessed like this. "Well, I suppose I can't deny, I have had my fair share of ' _Mycroft, something's happened to him, something bad!_ ' over the years, which I don't rebuke, don't worry - and I'm glad I don't."

John went visibly white. "What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, come now, surely you understand, it's in an elder sibling's best interest to keep the younger one out of trouble?"

"Is that right?" John's voice had tightened, in his still-present reluctance to say anything to give the game away.

The man smiled coldly, with an unrepentant sardonic gaze that lingered a long, long time at John. "I expect you know this to be right: ordinary people blunder about this city, and all they see are streets and cars and shops, but when you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. And you've seen it before, haven't you? You understand now, just why _this_ is so rare, for a pair connected by thought, who weren't even born in the same year, and to be people like you, who've seen what you've seen... "

 

The words _what do you mean, people like us?_ nearly lived long enough to be said out loud, but didn't at the last second. John had a rather horrible feeling, this omniscient smartarse might start retelling what his therapist had been saying to him, or maybe agree that she'd got it wrong, and say why.

"So far, has anyone said, Dr Watson, they think it could have been preordained? Two people like you, bonded by fate?"

His left hand reaching to grab the hem of his jacket, John had just opened his mouth to scoff at that idea, and was interrupted by a smooth "No, of course. You met one another yesterday, moved in, and are now solving crimes together. I expect you have yet to meet anyone - "

"I was about to say, I stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago."

 

 

"Well, if we agree on that matter, as a start, I have one more little thing to ask of you."

"What's that?"

The gentleman struck an elegant pose leaning on his umbrella. "For the time being, at least, you'll be taking up residence at Baker Street? Then, I hope that you could regularly provide for me... information, on exploits Sherlock would be up to... in exchange for which I could give you some financial support."

Again, as if on cue, John's pocket buzzed. **Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH** shone across the screen of his mobile phone.

 

"Very generous of you, but I'm not interested."

Taking the weight of his umbrella, he stepped forward. "I haven't mentioned a figure."

Hand closed round his phone in his pocket: "You don't need to."

 **If inconvenient, come anyway. SH**. Another text. John's gaze dropped down his pocket's level for a moment, which didn't go unnoticed - but the stranger looked impressed.

"That was remarkable. Even for you, with your trust issues - " a harsh expression flickered between them at those words, " - and after the little you've seen of Sherlock Holmes with your own eyes, you've decided to put your trust in his hands."

 _Oh, have I?_ Had John not been concentrating on the gentleman, he might have noticed, this left hand intermittent tremor of his - what his therapist had been convinced was a symptom of his PTSD - had stilled completely.

 

Umbrella swung back up into place on his arm, balanced at a precise angle to look like a sheathed sword, the man gave John an audacious, knowing almost-smile, before waltzing past him and away, calling behind him, "You're in for a thrill ride, Dr Watson. We've been awaiting you."

 **Could be dangerous.** One last text.

His heart pumping hard and steady in the sudden quiet, John cleared his throat, putting his phone back.

"Going to take you home?" asked a female voice behind him; the pretty brunette with eyes glued to her Blackberry again. Anthea, her name was, apparently.

Snapped out of his wary reverie: "Er, Baker Street. 221B Baker Street." For some reason, John wasn't surprised, at the excitement starting to brew up, along with the cautious anticipation. "But there's somewhere I've got to stop first."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so very sorry for the long wait - thank you so much for sticking around!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John realizes something for the first time...

The dull street light cast oddly delicate over Sherlock's face, as he lay flat back on the sofa with head on the armrest, setting off his high cheekbones, and the sharp contrast of strong features next to tousled hair. Eyes closed, hands steepled against his throat, he'd sunk himself deep into his reflection on the case that had just opened. His ivory skin made him look statuesque, freshly carved from clear marble, almost alien, in the way he was so completely cut off from the rest of the world.

Or maybe not so.

"You said could be dangerous, so I assume it's important," John's voice rang up the stairs ahead of him, as he forced himself up them with some urgency.

"Sherlock?"

 

Still, silence. Not even so much as a twitch. Flawlessly, serenely, ethereal.

"Sherlock? Earth calling?"

"Oh, yeah, can I borrow your phone?"

And, just like that, he popped back into the real world.

"What?"

"I'm not using mine, number's on the website, always a chance it'll be recognized."

 

It probably was in the back of John's mind all through the car journey back to Baker Street, but to see and hear it properly was quite infuriating enough.

"Mrs Hudson's got a phone,"

"Yeah, she was downstairs, but I don't think she heard me shouting."

"I was _the other side of London_ \- "

"Oh, there's no hurry... what did take you so long?"

John exhaled hard, and cleared his throat, fishing out his phone. "Someone who seems to know, we've been in each other's brains for decades and now we're sharing rent for a flat. He wanted to offer me some - how did he put it? Friendly advice?"

"Well, that narrows the field of possible candidates considerably." Sherlock sounded deadly serious. Quite acceptable, for someone who could probably smell a criminal mastermind a mile away.

John raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I could tell you more about him, if that'd help, with your deductions... "

Sherlock gave John a suspicious look.

"He offered me money to spy on you. Which I didn't accept."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Uh, classic Mycroft."

John slipped his phone between Sherlock's arms, planting it on his chest with a little disdain and just enough force, as if he were trapping something alive under a glass. "He's your brother, isn't he?"

Pulling a face, Sherlock picked the phone back up. "He is easier to wheedle something from than he looks, you know. Think it through next time - we could have split the fee."

 

The long white line of his arm exposed, John had a good view of a trio of round pale nicotine patches plastered to Sherlock's skin.

"They help me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days."

"Good news for breathing,"

"Bad news for brain work. Breathing's boring... "

"Is that three patches on there?"

"Three Patch Problem, John."

 

 

"Anyway, the case - "

"Oh, it's no good, we'll have to risk it."

Sherlock swanned off the sofa, letting his mind start wandering again, "Yes, John, the case."

"Case?"

"Her case."

A wheeled overnight case in a familiar electric shade of hot pink materialised from behind Sherlock's armchair and onto one of the smaller chairs.

"You found it quickly." John found himself sounding impressed. Let's hope he didn't mean to. Much.

"I looked, as would be the logical thing to do. Anywhere close enough to Lauriston Gardens to dispose of a bulky object without being observed. The killer must have realised he had her case after dropping her off, but couldn't have had a chance to get rid of it before getting back into his car."

"Right... "

"John," Sherlock purposefully tucked the mobile into John's hands, before turning the ID tag on the case towards him, name and email address and mobile number all there. "I need you to send a text."

"Wait, did you bring me here to send a text? I didn't have to - "

"These words exactly: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come.' "

John eagerly keyed it all in, but felt somewhat robbed, of the element of danger he'd hoped would come out of it.

 

Sherlock zipped the case open, and they both peered in, as Sherlock stirred round the contents.

"We know the killer drove his victims to their deaths, and statistically more likely, the killer would have been male, and would have drawn more attention to himself if he'd been seen with this."

John was frowning. Wondering if mind-reading could be possible through willpower alone.

 

 

"Oh, I think I ought to say, I didn't kill her."

John sat back into his red chair, cane leaning against his legs, and that sceptical look still on his face. "Do people often wonder if you're the killer?"

A small smirk toyed with Sherlock's lips. "Every now and then, yes."

"And who did I just text?"

 _I wouldn't want to disappoint you. No phone on the body, no phone in the case, and add this to a car-bound killer who's managed to disappear from one side of the city to the other, and the result is something rather ominous. Who do you think has her phone?_ Understanding dawning all over his face, John's hand hovered over the phone, unsure of what to look at - it started ringing, a piercing, sudden sound in the quiet, and Sherlock broke into a broad grin.

"A few hours pass after his last victim dies, and then he receives a text which can only be from her. If an innocent man found her phone and saw that text, he'd think nothing of it. Think it's a mistake."

John squinted at the screen with a frown. **Number withheld.**

"But a guilty man would panic."

 

Sherlock practically bounced up onto his feet, jacket appearing from somewhere and being pulled on a second later, all a wild burst of excitement after the quiet.

John peeled himself out of his seat, straightening up with as much dignity as he could. "Have the police been called?"

"Four people are dead, there isn't time to call the police."

"Yeah, but what are - "

"Mrs Hudson moved my skull again."

Pausing right before putting his scarf on, Sherlock gave the mantelpiece a wounded look for a few seconds. Indeed, Sherlock's, erm, ornament-turned-mute sounding board had disappeared from it's usual place.

"Does she think it's a health and safety risk?"

Sherlock forced back a short laugh. "I expect she's got a point. It does attract attention when I go out with it - I think a lot better when I talk out loud, and admittedly I like company when I go out. I suppose, you could just stay in tonight and watch telly... "

John was failing marvellously at hiding the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"So, I'm filling in for the skull?"

"No you're not... well, there's a slight chance I'd be taking you with me anyway... "

 

John almost wanted to run time back a moment and ask Sherlock if he'd meant to say that.

"You're not kidding, are you... I mean, do you count the time between each time you - that I, erm - "

"Not necessarily. More frequently, I do have more pressing things to think about."

At the sight of John's face, the casual tone to Sherlock's voice faded. "I didn't mean it like that. Take tonight, for example. I wasn't to know that you'd seen me retrieve the case. And there wouldn't be means for you to know the last time I saw into your mind was - "

"We met for the first time yesterday, Sherlock. And I think we'll have enough time to drive each other mad with this."

 

 

By now they'd reached the front door, stepping out into the street-lit night, and Sherlock was closing it behind them.

"Do you think there's a name for it? I mean, an official one. The only thing Mycroft seemed to call it was involuntary telepathy."

"It has a few names, use your imagination and you'd probably guess them. I've never exactly cared enough to find a name for mine - I'd have a better chance of finding someone I could talk to about it."

John was nearly caught off-balance, arranging his weight on his cane, and looking at Sherlock with a sudden fondness, just for long enough while Sherlock's back was turned.

"I know."

Sherlock shrugged, and offered John a blithe look. "I appreciate it."

 

"Northumberland Street?"

"Five minutes away."

"And he'd be mad enough to just drop by?"

"He has killed four people. And that is completely beside the point - this could be his moment in the spotlight, at last. Well, why else would someone go to so much trouble?"

"To commit all those murders?"

"And do it quite elaborately enough for the police not to catch him on their own?"

Sherlock was practically waltzing down the street, in his own orange limelight, and with a swirl of his coat tails. As if magic was lavished into his every step. "It's the Achilles Heel of genius: it needs an audience."

 _You don't say._ John let himself grin that roguish little grin of his, again not when Sherlock could see, but letting him enjoy this, even though technically it was still kept secret.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and then Sherlock does soon afterwards (not that he's going to screw it up, right?)

"I'm not his date."

 

John hadn't really been in the frame of mind to be that blunt, but he was hoping this wouldn't have been on people's minds; Angelo's being directly across the road of the trap Sherlock had laid for their suspect, and a meal on the house was very generous and all (of course, it's not every day someone gets you off a murder charge) but the tealight probably wasn't necessary. Yes, it looked romantic, but that wasn't why they were there. Nonetheless, the restaurant did offer a marvellous vantage point: dark, fairly tranquil, little glass lanterns hanging from the ceiling of their table in the bay window. Right down the side of Sherlock's face, and the top part of his head all delicately illuminated in the warm light. Reminiscent of all the hazy, hurried glimpses John received of Sherlock's face over the years. And even though they had only spent a little time with each other properly, his face honestly didn't look all that unfamiliar at all. Like that of an old friend from a previous life, someone he'd have spent years and years with.

 _Don't stare._ John hadn't even realised he was staring, and, admittedly, nor had he thought that Sherlock would be self-conscious, not with a face like his. Not with a face that fitted perfectly with his brilliance and offbeat personality. With a face that would turn heads everywhere, long and angular and strongly-drawn, the mop of sable curls, those sharp cheekbones, those intelligent, sparkling jade-green eyes... damn, he _was_ staring.

"What?"

If the light had been stronger, John might have noticed Sherlock blush just a little.

"You're staring."

"I'm just keeping an eye out for any mysterious cars. We can't both stare."

 

John turned to look over his shoulder. "Do you know what you're looking for?"

"I'll know it when I see it."

 

 

Nearly an hour later, and they'd seen nothing outside.

John meanwhile had summoned up the guts to try his charm offensive again.

 

"Sherlock... dare I ask, what your first impression of me was like? I mean, were you expecting anything? It's not like I was expecting to find you yesterday, just out of the blue like that. And, well, I'm not assuming anything, but I thought I was a bit of a surprise for you as well."

Sherlock studied John with, among other things, curiosity. A crinkled, multi-layered expression, trying to suss out how John's train of thought over the past few dozen hours had led him to want to ask this. John pushed the remaining pieces of salad round his plate with his fork, his gaze wavering.

 

"Was I?"

"You were, to be completely honest."

"It's just that, when Mycroft gave me his little cautionary talk, I wasn't sure. Wondering if you'd had me under surveillance since I... erm, if perhaps you'd been following my movements, and predicting if I'd end up meeting you, and if I'd be shacking up with you, I might need a proper vetting in."

"Shacking u - no. I mean, I certainly hadn't. Didn't have the slightest idea when you'd cross my mind again. Honestly - "

 

John was pulling a rather fetching face in his embarrassment. "Geez, Sherlock, I didn't mean, 'shacking up', I just meant... never mind. Look, it's just a bit weird. Is that what Mycroft's like, or... what?"

Sherlock considered it for a few moments, and sighed. "He's always been like that. Overprotective to the point of intrusive. Can never mind his own business, and then has the brass cheek to tell people he's simply concerned for my wellbeing."

John's head tilted slightly. "Well, you can't really blame him for that... "

"But?"

"But he's got a... funny way of showing it."

Sherlock ran a fingertip up the stem of his wineglass. "His psychic partner's married and living in Cardiff. And they never did hear from each other very often anyway. He could barely initiate any kind of relationship himself, never mind one that lasted very long."

 

John could have been told aloud that he was staring, and wouldn't have heard at all.

"Could you?"

Sherlock just sat there, eyes wide, lips parted and silently scrabbling round his head for any more words. " ...dull. Put simply."

"You don't have a girlfriend, then?"

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

 

Letting what he'd said sink in, John blinked, and ran the tip of his tongue over his top lip. "Oh, okay... d'you have a boyfriend?"

Sherlock looked sheepish.

"Which is fine, by the way - "

"I know it's fine."

"So you don't have a boyfriend."

"No."

 

"Okay." John offered a smile, trying not to look too overt, though this was getting dangerously close to looking real. After all, telepathy or no telepathy, Sherlock had undoubtedly been generous, helping John get himself sorted with board and lodging. After all, if this kind of compatability wasn't so rare, the world might be a happier place. Taking Sherlock out for a drink would certainly be a deserving way to thank him. "Unattached, like me. Good."

Now Sherlock looked visibly uncomfortable. If only John had known that he was quite oblivious to all of this.

 

Ironically enough, had the circumstances been different, John might not have been quite so eager to not keep the lid firmly closed on his feelings. Maybe it was the closed-in-ness of their booth and the candlelight and the cordial atmosphere.

Head bowed, Sherlock was thanking the dark for hiding his reddening cheeks. "John, er, I think you should know I consider myself married to my work, and - "

"oh, no, I just - "

The tension between them, and what they'd been trying to say, without much success, all slipped haphazardly sideways.

"I'm really not looking for - "

"I was just saying - "

"John - "

"It's _fine_. "

"Although I am flattered by your interest."

 

Still with something resembling a smile on his face, John looked almost as awkward as Sherlock felt. It didn't exactly seem very fair, having next to no control over when they could take a look into each other's heads. Whether it was coincidence or not, John had seen Sherlock read people, breaking down details and making leaps between them to reach his conclusion, several times already that night. Perhaps there'd be some hope for being able to communicate to each other without tying themselves up in confusion; John had an odd feeling that Sherlock would proposition John with a 'secret' sooner or later.

But before John could do anything else, Sherlock's expression suddenly sharpened, his gaze focused right on the road outside.

"What is it?"

"Taxi. Stopped a couple of doors down."

"Could be looking for a fare?"

"He's not."

 

Indeed he wasn't. While they both were watching, several people approached the taxi and none of them got in; it's light wasn't on, but that only added to the suspicious inkling it gave them both. Sherlock could not take his eyes off it, wrapping himself up in his coat as they stepped out of Angelo's doors - and a moment later, their target had taken off down the road and out of sight.

Sherlock practically vaulted over the front of another car, as he bolted right into the road, while John managed to dodge round it, with just enough time to yell "Sorry!" at the driver. By Sherlock's side, he gasped in some air, not expecting Sherlock to say "I know you caught it's number. Let me think."

"What?" John pressed - all it had taken was a surge of adrenaline, and Sherlock had caught what John's eyes had seen.


End file.
